


magnus usurper

by hoverbun



Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M, New Lore Friendly, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History forgets the danger of men with nothing to lose, and is doomed to repeat itself on its own hubris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DECEMBER 2017 UPDATE: there is a very, very slim chance i will update this again. i am content knowing i predicted the direction of azir + xerath's lores, and i definitely still like them enough to want to write something in the future. keep your eyes peeled!

The robes he wears are of fabrics from a northern nation, untouched by Shurima’s guiding light. They rest loose - yet still so heavy - upon his shoulders, rich sienna that darkens itself in the waning shade of palace walls. They are warm, brought in from where they hung in the sun’s gaze. Xerath thinks himself decorated in sunlight, and the idea makes his skin crawl.

Servants request him to outstretch his arms. He recognizes the ones attending to him, pulling on the sleeves to smooth the beautiful fabric, attending to the embroidery that rests on his collar and over his wrists, pulling the loose hanging fabric into tight cuffs, framing thin wrists and thinner fingers.

He meets the eyes of one. Her name is Revana. He feels a hot ball of shame roll inside him when she blinks slowly but does not show her scorn. She is at work; she has a duty to fulfill.

Her eyes remind him of the sadness he hears in the songs of the priestesses, when they sing for the people in the streets who gather around temples - of the sun, of its birth, of the Ascended, of Shurima’s children.

There is sadness, and there is anger. She knows who he is, too. She wonders why it couldn’t have been her being honoured like him, to throw herself down at the heels of her lords and find favour in them. He wonders, briefly, if she will speak of him to others.

The cuffs graze his skin, chafing the dry surface. There is a burn scar on his wrist from a past punishment. It hurts, especially now.

They are those whose names would be forgotten by any other royal, anyone who could scrape their gold together and never worrying when their next meal might be. Xerath knows them all, raised alongside them by each other’s mothers to alleviate the burden of when one would pass. They dress him in robes borrowed from the prince, and braid his hair, and clean his skin, and he feels as if they press their nails to his skin, leaving their marks to remind him of what he is leaving behind.

His hands are brittle. Revana’s are, too, yet she holds them and inspects his like she would the crown prince’s, revered and respected. She knows, and he knows, there are eyes watching them, so that their tired, thin hands will not steal from the palace.

A voice from the open doorway. “You will be seeing His Highness soon.”

Spoken with distaste, hatred in a refined accent for the slave in royal garb, falsifying his worth in silk and cotton.

Xerath curls a hand shut. Even in their grace, he must decorate himself to be worthy of their gaze.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He will be educated. He will stand beside the crown prince and provide personal council. He is told that this is is what every servant ought to dream of.

Azir made the order, and his father did not disagree.

( Vengeance is sown the moment Azir looks at him as he would a friend. )

The gardens are different when you walk them upright and without work clothes scuffing your skin. Xerath walks at Azir’s side, his steps out of beat with the steady strides of High Highness. They are an irregular heartbeat, attempting unity in the presence of another - Azir speaks, Xerath breathes in time with his words so he may know when to rush his response, memorizing the words to give a curt and timely response.

When Azir speaks - as he does now, asking Xerath if it is his first time in the gardens at all - he speaks like he would a crowd, issuing command with his rich words and inspiring vocabulary. Xerath slurs his responses, _uneducated_ and  _improper_ , yet Azir responds with equal enthusiasm as he did his last word, brimming with the sun’s excellence. Xerath knows the sun is a creation of the gods, yet no Shuriman royal is worthy of such high praise if they leave iron chains on their people's wrists.

He hasn't responded yet.

 _Has_ he ever been to the gardens?

“No.” He has his fingers hooked underneath the wrists of his sleeves, uneasy at the constant brushing of fabric on his skin. “I was old enough, yet Mother Haina requested I work elsewhere.”

A pause. Xerath has learned Azir hates it when he reminds him who he is, that he is not an old friend he has welcomed back into his life, but the labour of a burden that rests upon his shoulders. His jaw tightens, though not from fury  - rather a shade of uneasiness. Xerath waits for the broken promise - stripping him of his silks and cottons and pushing him back into the servant's quarters for being an inconvenience on his conscience. Royalty doesn't like compromise.

“For what purpose?” he finally asks.

“Young hands,” he responds, flat and dry, like the sand swept between the rocks, untouched by the garden’s vegetation. “Cutting plants, renovations, too much for a child. I never disagreed. I prefer to clean.”

Azir must feel the burning stare at the side of his head, where thick brown hair has been braided. “Your mother sounds kind.”

_She is not my mother. My mother starved to death as punishment for theft, an order placed by your father. Mother Haina was one of the many mothers to tend to slave children._

“Indeed. She is very kind.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

He saved the boy from the sands. What people do not call him is the _saih'kharash'i_ who lived.

It was not an alpha Xer’Sai by any means, with teeth that rattle with unknown pulsing energy and claws sharper than any stone or steel he had seen carved and forged. Rather, an infant - it barely measured past three feet long, and it curled in upon itself as it died.

But it clawed for the fallen prince all the same, blinded by the storming sands. Xerath does not know what overcame him to rescue Shurima’s legacy with only his body to shield him. Perhaps it was dying loyalty to an empire that will use his corpse to pave further roads, indebted or not. Perhaps it was concern.

He realized, when Azir was swept into the arms of his mother and the soldiers gathered the injured slave, that should he have died, his martyrdom would have been used to tell the people of Shurima the undesirable class of slavery _enjoyed_ their subjugation - _see how one gave his life, thankful and loving, for the crown prince._

But death would have spared him, eradicated the chance of being honoured.

They sit at a balcony, food shared between them and a servant Xerath cannot say he recognizes retreating from fetching wine. The parapet above them has running water through it. He is reminded of an oasis.

“‘Xerath’,” he says, and when Xerath looks at him he realizes Azir is only thinking, curling his tongue around his name. “Your name means ‘ferocious birth’’. A name of the people from the Sai Desert’s borders."

“So you have learned,” Xerath responds, his gaze lingering.

“It was fate that you were with my family on our travels,” Azir responds, eyes scanning the uneven skyline of Shurima’s capital, buildings that are complete with their clean-cut stone roofs, eking out into ones made of stone slab - carved out of necessity to house the poor. He sees the temples, rounded roofs and painted beautiful colours, and Xerath misses the warm smiles of their priestesses. “Your namesake speaks of your capabilities.”

“You survived because of your family’s hesitation to issue an escape when they realized it was not I who had fallen prey to the Sai Desert,” Xerath says, as if to remind him. Azir’s smile is genuine, and wanes in its own misery.

“Had I not chosen to walk the sands instead of ride alongside my brother…” he speaks with understanding, and then meets Xerath’s lasting gaze. “I am alive because of you. You know I am in your debt, Xerath.”

 _Lying is most unbecoming of you, Your Highness_. “I did what any man loyal to Shurima would have done.”

“ _Any_ man would protect their crown prince, distracted by his own idiocy?” Azir is laughing, the insult ripe on his tongue like fresh fruit. “You may insult me if you wish, Xerath! The simple mind of a child is a dangerous one - I thank the gods I was allowed to survive that day, with the intervention of the desert’s own son.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Xerath attempts, and his silence is not cold.

“I am a fool who was allowed a second chance on his life. Do not allow me to forget that.”

There is something inside him that has him respond to his smile. So he does, his own curved in a tense slit, mirroring the apparent comfort of his second. He ought to talk less, smile more, be thankful of who it is that brought him to his status, but the shame of his position never wanes from the depths of his stomach, and he can feel it spreading like a root through his body. “I will not, sir.”

His smile is as warm as the sun and the disc that swallows its glory, engorged on its light, feasting on its power and illuminating the city. He is reminded of empires, and the fates of their emperors, and the unforgiving sands of the desert. Azir’s smile allows him to ask anything, without the prying ears of searching servants and uncertain royalty, beneath the parapet build by men like Xerath. Shuriman afternoon are warm, and Azir’s smile is as steady as the gentle wind rolling through the open doorway.

“Should we travel again,” Xerath begins, tentatively looking at one of the cups brought to them, lukewarm water inside, still and listless, “where shall I ride?”

“At my side, of course,” Azir speaks wth fact, dark eyes light like a new fire.

Xerath thinks of those who will crawl at his side, staring up at him with their swollen knees and their tired eyes, wondering why it cannot be them elevated to the status of the emperor-to-be himself. He smiles, but cannot shake the vision.


End file.
